Below is an excerpt from the sole journal Céline kept as an adult. This particular entry was written from the psychiatric ward of St. Vincent’s hospital in lower Manhattan, where my sister stayed after one of several stints in rehab. From the early paragraphs it’s obvious that she expected me (the snoop in question!) to find it at some point, a notion that reliably makes me laugh and cry simultaneously. Mostly, however, I find this glimpse into my sister’s head extraordinarily comforting, and I know she’d appreciate my decision to share it with you guys.

A black and white composition notebook I’ll treasure forever.

8:40pm

I’m not one to keep journals, not for lack of thoughts or the ability to convey them coherently, but rather because there is something of a daunting permanence that inherently, to my own mind at least, accompanies that which transpires when ink hits paper and the mind is exposed and rendered vulnerable in this way. I do not enjoy revisiting my mindsets once they’ve past—don’t enjoy what can be pain, either a relived pain or pain in having to realize that there was once a moment so precious that it was worth recording but can never be lived again. This all sounds rather heavy when in fact many times I simply deem my musings and experiences utterly dull and unworthy of noting. All this just to write, in excessively loquacious fashion, that I am not by habit a writer—of my own experiences and the goings on of my mind, at any rate.

Here today I find myself having just been admitted to the psychiatric ward at St. Vincent’s hospital in lower Manhattan. The story that has led me to this place is not easily narrated succinctly, nor do I wish to indulge in a tedious rehashing of it at this time. If you’re reading this, one of three circumstances must be true:

1. You are in fact me

2. You are a terrible snoop

3. I have died and this trifle of ramblings has surfaced in the cleaning out of my belongings.

None of these cases inspires me to present a recent, cohesive history about myself for fairly self-evident reasons.

I mention that I may be dead if these words are being read. It is something I ponder lately—my own longevity. I may in fact be on my way out, an idea I have not borne out of some morbid fascination with melodrama, but rather is a fear shared by numerous members of the medical community.

So here I find myself in the psych ward, on the fifth floor, which I’m continuously assured is for the “least crazy” or “most stable” of us, though I’m entirely unconvinced the patients on floors one through four don’t hear the same chorus. Anyway, I landed myself here “voluntarily,” though strongly recommended by the physicians I saw over the course of the past six days, which I spent hospitalized across the street for delightful ailments such as vomiting blood, etc.—details neither necessary nor interesting. Bottom line: They didn’t want to let me loose on the street because they deemed me to be thoroughly depressed, and, perhaps of more immediate potential liability to them, suicidal.

I probably am depressed—this I concede fully. However, I maintain that I am not now, and never have been, a suicidal person—if only because I’m much too terrified of dying (dying, not death—an important distinction in my way of thinking).

I’ve just filled three pages in a composition notebook, which is an exorbitant amount of babbling for a first time journaler. It’s 9:22pm, so I’m going to go call my mom from one of the two payphones in the hallway before it gets too late. (Since I don’t have any minutes left on my phone card from rehab a few weeks ago, I’ll have to call collect.) Mom was supposed to deliver clothes and candy for me today, and even though she can piss me off like no one else and the wrong glance from her can send me immediately into a state of intense anxiety, resentment, and frustration, I was nevertheless excited that she was going to come by—and not just because of the goods she would be delivering.

On the up side of disappointment, I can request a few more important items for her to bring if she’s coming tomorrow instead. It turns out you’re allowed many more varied personal items in the psych ward than in rehab. Wow, there’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.

I can’t believe this is my life.

11:17pm

Well, off to bed now. I’m actually feeling properly sleepy, and not just direly fatigued as over the past few months. This would be more satisfying if I could claim it to be indicative of some natural healing process within my body, but I must instead attribute the welcome prospect of impending slumber to a tiny little pill. Apparently they’ve found one that won’t (or shouldn’t) do any additional damage to my already f**ked up liver. I can only hope I’m not facing eight hours of horrifying nightmares.

Wow, I sound cynical and bitter this evening. I think I’m a relatively pleasant person in reality, so I’ll cease today’s ramblings before I get on my own nerves.

In the grand tradition of the most illustrious Jerry Springer, a “final thought:” “She said she usually cried at least once each day not because she was sad, but because the world was so beautiful and life was so short.”

When my phone vibrates for the third time within 10 minutes, I glance from drying nails to handbag, considering whether to jeopardize freshly painted paws to reach in and find out who’s calling. Predictably, I succumb to my digital addiction. Perky Purple manicure somehow still intact, I digest the foreboding message printed on my cell’s screen: You have three missed calls from The Pentagon.

My parents’ number has long been logged as The Pentagon in my address book. Partly, it amuses me to nurture a false sense of self-importance, but mostly this is the case because many of the calls I’ve received from home in the past have, in fact, been extremely urgent.

The subject of pressing calls has always been my older sister, Céline. For roughly half a decade, Céline suffered from liver disease, the debilitating effects of which were aggravated and/or caused by a prolonged battle with alcoholism.

Her illness meant that she was heavily medicated by a host of drugs which clouded her natural wit and disarming spirit, that she was often blasted to the point of collapse at Starbucks at 1 pm, that the green bile her liver couldn’t filter radiated through her skin and the “whites” of her eyes.

Before her passing in 2009 at age 30, Céline’s sickness also meant that my parents frequently rang my younger brother and me at odd hours to alert us to near-death episodes and ambulance rides.

Not since the devastating day we lost Céline have I received such a frantic series of calls. What could have happened now, I think to myself. She’s already gone.

As when Céline was still alive, I hesitate to call back, wishing to delay whatever truth awaits. But Mom’s dire tone in her voicemail moves me more than I wish it could. So I gather my belongings and leave the salon to call The Pentagon. One ring before Mom answers.

“We received a letter. Your father and I. It’s just -- it’s so disturbing. Why would anyone?”

“A letter from who?”

“It’s anonymous.”

“What does it say?”

“They cite the upcoming anniversary of Céline’s death as their impetus for writing.”

“It better be in sympathy, then, or attached to a bouquet of flowers.”

“They say awful things. About your father and me. That we are terrible parents. That Céline’s death is our fault. ‘Her blood is on your hands,’ it reads. ‘Céline’s long desire to kill herself is directly correlated to your failure.”

Mom pauses here, because I’m laughing. It’s not that I find any aspect of this funny, but that this is how I cope instinctively. Whenever Céline was bedridden at the hospital, I would draw weird cartoons on the white board at the foot of her bed and tell inappropriate jokes. It’s just what I do.

Sensing maternal disapproval, I regain my bearings. “In a way I’m grateful for the absurdity, Mom, because it means that we can’t take it seriously. You can’t let the ramblings of a total loon bother you.”

Deafeningly robotic. “Can Melanie be far behind Céline? Have you read the articles she publishes? She exploits herself in every manner possible. Her admitted affair with a married man and her struggle choosing whether or not to sleep with her boss are surely destined for literary immortality.”

“Oh, snap!”

Continuing, “She is clearly worse than Céline ever was.”

“Ouch.”

“Her hateful nature and destructive path is clear to all except those who use and exploit her. One can only hope that your children decide never to procreate and the dysfunctional lineage dies with them. Your sickness is apparent to all who look closely. How do you live with yourselves?”

“That’s horrible."

“It’s awful, Mel. Who would do this? Who could?”

“I don’t know, Mom. The most ridiculous thing is that whomever wrote this is inherently more terrible for doing so than we are for whatever we’ve allegedly done wrong.”

“It’s so cruel.”

“The timing’s certainly screwed up. Mom, I’m sorry, but I’m running late for a dinner. Please don’t let this get to you. It’s not worth your time and energy to dwell on it. Otherwise, he wins,” I say, perhaps more to myself than to her.

“Let’s talk again this weekend.”

“I love you. And remember, you’re an excellent mother. How else could I have turned out so awesome?”

While dressing for the night in my studio apartment, I ponder the contents of the letter. As a writer, this isn’t my first encounter with invective. I know from reading comments on my work that anonymity emboldens assholery. I also know that however hard you try to ignore such venom, it can compromise your sense of self.

Whether or not I’m successful at preserving my mental health, the more disturbing reality is that my mom, who isn’t the regular recipient of rancor, is naturally shaken. I know this letter will prevent her from sleeping. She will mull over every word. Linger over the sad reality that someone is capable of doing such a thing. She might even reevaluate her role as a mother to Céline, my younger brother, and me. She will judge herself because one spiteful, misguided human acted inhumanely.

I hate that letter.

My parents have since encased the despicable thing in a plastic bag and locked it in a file cabinet. I know what they’re thinking: potential criminal evidence.

In an ode to my sister, I refuse to be scared. That said, the window above my bed that doesn’t lock properly suddenly seems a whole lot more foreboding.

My own mother, who was a homemaker for 15 years before launching a career as a high school teacher, made the gig seem attractive. Mom was insanely attentive to my siblings and me. She was always up for Checkers or fort building, and she successfully masked educational museum visits as Special Adventures. She was strict but nurturing, and, most notably, present -- in that lovingly supportive hammock-beneath-the-planet way.

By preadolescence, I couldn’t wait to babysit since it was the next best thing to momming. In retrospect, it’s odd that I was trusted to look after toddlers at age 12, but because I was terrified of messing up and losing my right to substitute parent, I was as vigilant as a sitter could get.

I played with my charges constantly rather than leave them in front of the television, and after reading at least three bedtime stories during tuck-in, I would clean people’s homes. After all of that work, the $10 an hour I earned still felt like a bonus more than a wage.

My overwhelming urge to mother persisted throughout my teen years. It even trumped any career ambitions I had while studying at Georgetown. Though I always imagined working after graduation, I mostly fantasized about becoming a mother eventually.

Then my older sister got sick.

Though I didn’t realize it at the time, my sister’s prolonged illness definitely had something to do with the evaporation of my need to breed. By the time my 30-year-old sister succumbed to cirrhosis in 2009, the idea of rearing children was anathema.

“Why would I want to invite life on an innocent being?” I would bemoan, much to the dissatisfaction of my mother, who, by then, was prone to sending me newspaper clippings about the ineffectiveness of fertility treatments in case I thought it was OK to wait much longer to procreate.

Perhaps I knew on some level that it would take falling in love to reignite my passion for spawning a small extension of myself. Truthfully, however, I didn’t expect the impulse to ambush me so quickly, nor with such full force.

But here I am, two years into a relationship with a man whom I love dearly, who, accidentally or not, has roused me into a baby-making frenzy. This longing isn’t a lingering, back-burner itch for me. It refuses to wane, even in the face of logistical issues, financial considerations, and the nine-month sobriety mandate. I want to reproduce, nowish.

While this might not surprise other young women—especially those coping with societal pressure in the form of one’s peers popping them out -- my approach to the whole thing might. I am shamelessly baby crazy, you see.

Below is a list of the top 5 baby craziest things I have done so far:

A prenatal vitamin a day may or may not scare your boyfriend away

1. I purchased prenatal vitamins.

Then I took a picture of the jar and Texted it to my boyfriend with the following caption: “My vitamin-enriched womb will be the best nest ever! PS: My lady parts miss you!” He responded: “K!” But I was not to be deterred.

Since my boyfriend and I were scheduled to celebrate my mom’s birthday over dinner with my parents, I figured it would be advantageous to let my boyfriend witness how ecstatic my mom would get at the very mention of “our” intent to have children. To prevent confusion, I prefaced the gift opening by whispering to Mom, “I’m not pregnant -- yet.” The big reveal led to some minor choking but mostly gleeful laughter courtesy of mom.

3. I promised my boyfriend I would have a boy.

This is totally unreasonable and borderline offensive, I know. Plus, my boyfriend is not a terrible person who would prefer a son to a daughter. Still, something inside me sensed that he would warm to the idea of parenting a male who could carry on his surname, barring the chance that the kid turned out to be some anti-establishment rock star who favored a symbol to a name. Sure enough, my boyfriend smiled at the thought of a baby boy. We even agreed that we would refrain from circumcising him.

4. Then I agreed to call my hypothetical baby boy Vladimir.

My boyfriend is of Russian descent and he’s always expressed affection for this name. I think Vladimir is the most cumbersome set of syllables one could impose on an oral cavity. Aside from the pronunciation conundrum, I don’t like the way it looks on the page -- written in print, script, block or bubble letters (yes, I’ve experimented with all). Nevertheless, I figured that consenting to Vladimir might spur my boyfriend’s sperm into fertilize-an-egg mode. After he sees what I endure in the delivery room, he’s likely to let me name the child whatever I want anyway, right?

5. Last but not least, I started talking to my hypothetical baby boy, Vladimir.

The idea occurred to me while sitting with my boyfriend in a movie theater, eating popcorn laced with peanut M&M’s. We were there to see the latest "Twilight" film, so maybe the whole PG-13 thing got to me. Wouldn’t it be fun to go to the movies as a family? I thought. And before I knew it, I was offering a handful of chocolate-y popcorn to an imaginary little Vlad, who was seated to my boyfriend’s left. It took my boyfriend a solid 30 seconds to register what was going on. Then he said, “If you’re going to insist we see Twilight, you don’t get to be baby crazy.”

For the record, I am neither married nor engaged. The term “bastard” doesn’t bother me one bit.

“I’m back,” my boyfriend announces over the phone right as he opens our front door.

Fuck, I think. He’s early.

Don’t get me wrong. Even after 18 months of dating, I covet my boyfriend’s company pretty much always. Sometimes that means quietly typing at our laptops side by side, and sometimes it means dissecting the most recent episode of "Downton Abbey" while one of us is on the toilet. (If my boyfriend is the personification of the ruffled yellow security blanket Mom sewed for me when I was a baby, I’m okay with that. Both are great in bed.)

But as eager as I am to greet my boyfriend after the five-day business trip that robbed me of human warmth in bed for too long, I really could have used the extra 20 minutes until his scheduled arrival tonight. I still need to deforest my nether regions, you see.

By this stage in a relationship, you might think I’d feel at ease about letting my pubic hair grow to lengths unseen since I started tending to it back in college. Such a minor infraction of The Unspoken Upkeep Agreement, right?

The fact is that I’m Type-A to the point of ironing pillow cases, so slacking off at anything translates into anxiety for me. As a result, I work hard at staying on top of work related correspondence, at ensuring that I have hummus in my fridge at all times, and at remaining physically attractive to my boyfriend.

Call me a Sorry Excuse For A Feminist all you want, but you’ll never see a “mom haircut” on this head, and if I’m in sweatpants, you better believe I’ve screened them for optimal butt-hugging potential. I’d rather be called vain than risk losing my boyfriend’s attention.

As far as I’m concerned, though, feeling sexy doesn’t require modesty. Thanks to our open bathroom door policy, my boyfriend has already witnessed some totally unrefined nose blowing, tweezing, shaving, and the insertion and removal of countless tampons. As long as I look put-together most of the time, I figure it’s endearing to let someone into such private moments.

Is tonight the time to add pubic hair trimming to the list of shared personal behaviors? I imagine myself on hands and knees, collecting rogue hair fragments with a dampened paper towel. For whatever reason, the hypothetical cleanup scene terrifies me. The pubes must stay for one more day! Aren’t they just the tissue paper on the way to a gift, anyway?

The comment that throws me off comes an hour later, while my boyfriend is inside me.

"I can feel your pubes rubbing up against me," he says.

Did I hear him right? So focused was I on switching from top to bottom without letting him slip out -- a satisfyingly sexy maneuver for the synchronized effort it requires -- that I may have misheard him. I run through the list of possible alternatives: I can feel your moods? foods? cubes? nudes? glutes? The latter might make sense, but only if we were in the reverse cowgirl position. We aren’t.

I’m 99.72 percent sure he said “pubes,” and 100 percent sure that his comment wasn’t framed as a compliment. By my estimate, there’s a mildly reassuring .28 percent chance that he was kidding. Recently, I interrupted a rambunctious session following a gluttonous meal of spaghetti carbonara and homemade S’mores to deadpan: "Think we’ve burned off any marshmallow yet?"

As long as you can tune back into your steamy frequency, it’s awesome to crack up during sex. If the pubic comment was made in jest, however, the window for appropriate response time already passed. So either my boyfriend hates my vagina, or, thanks to me, we’ve both missed out on a mid-sex chuckle.

The next day, I prioritize “get waxed” over “pick up bridesmaid's dress for Nicole’s wedding,” “renew passport,” and “re-teach self Algebra so you can tutor high school kids” on the ol’ To-Do List.

Half an hour after dinner, I start seducing my boyfriend, eager to repair his opinion of my lady parts. It’s not long before his hand is teasing the elastic band of my boy-short underwear. The grazing stops short.

“You’re bald again,” he says.

Is that disappointment I sense? “You’re the one who pointed out the need for landscaping!”

“Noooo. I said I could feel your pubes. Because I liked it.”

My shoulders sink in defeat. I feel silly for agonizing over what my boyfriend meant rather than asking him in the moment, and for considering that he might be anything but attracted to my vagina.

Mostly, I feel foolish for grooming my small plot of hair so vigilantly without questioning the habit for a decade. Contemplating the thousands of dollars spent over the years on maintaining my “hard wood floor” of a pubic region, I wonder why I fell prey so easily to the Playboy-porno-pubic model.

Arrow marks the spot.

Finances and suckerdom aside, a little research proves that the emphasis on shaving and waxing might be bad for women’s health. Much like opposable thumbs and whatever instinct makes us jump at loud noises, pubic hair serves a simple purpose: It’s there to protect our female parts. Removing it leaves miniature openings, which can be welcome mats for infectious bacteria.

Whether or not I reform forever to become what Caitlin Moran, author of How To Be A Woman, calls “a pubicatarian,” my wallet and I are happy to know that my boyfriend isn’t turned off by a little hair. And for my next mid-sex jest, I plan to incorporate a bright red merkin.

An appropriately blurry photo, taken long before my divorced boyfriend and I came out as a couple.

Divorce is a doozy of a word. To most, it connotes failure, neglect, philandering, physical and/or emotional abuse, irreconcilable differences, the division of assets and toxic custody disputes.

It’s no wonder so many cringe at the idea of dating someone with an ex-wife. He must so be damaged! He must have so much baggage! He must have an incurable case of halitosis!

But for the single gal interested in finding Mr. Right, disregarding the divorced set isn’t just silly -- it’s downright inefficient. According to the National Survey for Family Growth (NSFG), the chances that a separation from a first marriage transitions to divorce is 53% within one year for women ages 15-44, and 86% within five years. What that translates into is a vast pool of people with priors in the Marriage Department. To overlook this group, then, is to reduce one’s options by a significant margin.

Perhaps you want to be the only woman whose veil her husband removes for a special nuptial smooch; the only one to whom he gives a shiny rock on which he spent at least three months of salary; the only one whom he calls “gooey pie sweetheart” because yourlove is the sticky, finger-licking-good-to-a-sickening-degree kind. If only Happy Endings weren’t more likely to involve a wink, a nod, and a handjob than the Disney movie crap we were raised on.

I’m not suggesting that anyone give up on happiness -- just that we broaden our idea of who or what might lead us there. As someone who’s been dating a divorcé for some time now, I can assure you that there are benefits to landing a man who’s signed a few more legal documents than the next guy.

First, the divorced have a proven track record of commitment. If your goal is to enter into a serious relationship, it should reassure you to know that a man doesn’t suffer from whatever phobia plagues perpetual bachelors. Second, a divorced man has likely learned from his past relationship mistakes. What some call baggage, others call vital experience. Lastly, if your plan is to marry, the statistics are on the divorced dater’s side. The NSFG cites a mere 10% chance of separation from a second marriage ending in divorce within year one!

For all the perks that come with dating the divorced, there are, of course, specific complications to consider. But to help those interested in tapping into this underrated category of eligible men, I’ve outlined the following five-point survival guide.

A split second before these love Post-Its made me smile, I wondered whether he’d done such a thing for his ex.

1. Be Good At Sex.

It may be difficult to pinpoint what causes a marriage to crumble, but I think we can agree that one thing is generally true of troubled couples: They do not have a lot of good sex, at least not within their matrimonial union. So unless he was completely cavalier about seeking sex outside his marriage, your divorced boyfriend has likely experienced a period of sexual deprivation in the not-so-distant past.

What I’m getting at is that he will be duly grateful if you’re a badass in bed. Most men appreciate a woman who knows what she’s doing in the sack, but the divorced ilk are positioned to be doubly grateful for your bedroom enthusiasm. Being good at sex doesn’t have to mean mastering acrobatic tricks or being overly generous with fellatio, but it can. I, for one, recommend a class at Babeland called The Art of the Blowjob. Especially when dating divorced, the effort won’t go unappreciated.

2. Don’t Disparage His Ex

If you have to vent about your divorced boyfriend’s ex, call a friend. Whatever you do, avoid berating her in front of him. Anger and resentment are unattractive emotions, and you do yourself no favors by coming across as bitter.

By speaking ill of his ex, you also risk triggering his defense mechanism. No matter how many times he wonders what the fuck he was thinking when marrying the psychobitch, he was indeed married to said psychobitch at one point. This suggests that there’s a modicum of warmth towards her resting somewhere deep beneath his prostate, and it’s not in your interest to set it free by attacking her. Let him disparage her, but don’t get sucked into that vortex.

a.) Don’t Be Creeped Out By Your Resemblance To Her

Since it’s unlikely that your divorced boyfriend’s taste in women has changed all that dramatically following his first marriage, chances are that you’ll resemble her a bit physically. That might make it tricky to insult her appearance (internally only, of course), but it’s something you have come to terms with.

b.) Refrain From Googling Her

Google stalking is standard practice these days. However, it’s dangerous to indulge your click-happy fingers when it comes to your boyfriend’s ex-wife. Depending upon how widespread her web presence, Googling the ex can lead to fixation over who she is, what she’s doing and who she’s hanging out with. It can also lead to discovery of the dated New York Times wedding announcement you don’t want to read, and reread. The main risk is that you end up uttering those disparaging thoughts you’re meant to suppress. Choose a celebrity to obsess over instead.

3. Forget About Finances

They say divorce is expensive because it’s worth it. Without a doubt, financial issues are a leading cause of divorce. That’s probably because money matters, and money matters suck. If you’re interested in dating a divorcé, you absolutely must accept the fact that his financial commitments to his previous life will be ongoing.

Your divorced boyfriend’s alimony and/or child support payments will detract from your disposable income as a couple, and drain the funds that should be saved to support your hypothetical future family. Deal with it. If you can’t look past the cost of his first marriage, you probably deserve to be in a vapid relationship with someone who earns stupid amounts of money, but sucks in bed. Try Wall Street.

4. Be Discreet

Your boyfriend divorced his first wife, but not his entire former life. It is thus bound to be somewhat awkward for him to integrate you into his social circle, and you should be mindful of this. If he prefers to remain discreet for a while, respect his choice of hole-in-the-wall restaurant and his hesitance to be overly affectionate in public. He might ask that you refrain from advertising your relationship via social media channels, too. If you like the guy enough, it should be sufficient to be together without the whole world knowing about it from the start. On the upside of forsaking your Facebook relationship status, by being so cooperative and understanding you will showcase your unwavering devotion.

5. Be Patient

A person who’s been-there-done-that in the marriage sphere will probably be hesitant to launch full throttle into his next relationship. In short, expect milestones to arrive at a more sluggish pace. Yes, it will be frustrating to meet his parents and to cohabitate much later than you’d like, but his reluctance to move quickly is not a reflection of his lack of feelings for you.

Fielding questions from prodding family members isn’t fun for anyone, and the questions posed of a divorcé are roughly one thousand times more needling. Through divorce, after all, one relinquishes their I Know How to Pick Them benefit of the doubt. Try to view the man’s plodding approach as a move to protect you from dubious glances across the honey glazed ham at Christmas.

When it comes to checking off the all-important Signs of Commitment -- from the magical appearance of a second toothbrush at his house to the invitation to join his family cell phone plan -- pad your timeframe, just not so much that you feel you’re compromising your self-respect.

Whether or not “amicable divorce” is an oxymoron, marital breakups transpire each year, leaving a trail of suitable single people in their wake. I would encourage everyone to abandon whatever hang-ups they might have about finding an “I Do” virgin -- not only because it’s mathematically advantageous, but also because dating divorced has its own rewards. Remember, you’re not sloppy seconds. You’re an upgrade.

I’m filling out a standard form in Dr. Ryan Minara’s waiting room (Reason for visit: my boyfriend made me, Activities in which the patient regularly engages: running, walking, cycling, and cuddling) when my boyfriend calls.

“No one’s allowed to touch your toe until I get there,” he instructs, then hangs up.

Since it takes the mere mention of a medical procedure or a word such as “pustule” to make me feel woozy, I tend to avoid doctor’s visits altogether. Even now, with my big toe painfully swollen from an infected ingrown toenail, I’d rather be sedentary forever than be prodded by a podiatrist.

“Everyone knows podiatry is the field D-level students choose out of med school,” I had said when my boyfriend told me he booked the appointment with Dr. Minara without consulting me.

“That’s ridiculous. And you’re going,” he’d replied.

I figured that my boyfriend was either a thoughtful man for researching New York City’s footcare industry on my behalf, or that he was disgusted by the thought of watching me soak my puffy toe in a warm, Epsom salt infused bath one more night in a row. Or both. What I didn’t figure was that he’d insist on being present for the assessment.

With him looming, it will be a lot harder to convince the doctor that I’m not in constant pain, or lie about how long the problem’s persisted. I see a parade of needles, scalpels and blood in my near future, all courtesy of my meddlesome boyfriend.

By the time he takes the seat next to me in the waiting room, my “thanks for coming” drips with sarcasm. I’m scared. More so, I’m irritated. Who’s to say what I should or should not do about an appendage? Does my boyfriend think he has power of attorney over my body? The mini Eve Ensler resting atop my shoulder tells me that I did just fine for two-plus decades without this guy and that I don’t need him to take care of me now any more than I did before!

When my name is called, I stand and collect my belongings without acknowledgement of the tumor that is my clinging boyfriend. A nurse ushers us into an exam room, then instructs me to remove sneakers and socks before ducking out to fetch Dr. Minara. While unfastening my footwear at the pace of three-toed sloth, I frown at the “pain scale” poster on the opposite wall

Arguably an ill-advised décor choice.

By the time the rotund, affable Dr. Minara enters, I’m seated cross-legged on the patient’s reclining chair, feet carefully tucked from view.

Before Minara can look up from his chart, I blurt, “Has anyone ever died from an ingrown toenail?”

“Not that I know of,” he admits.

“Aha! So, I can probably treat this at home.”

“You mean with some kind of home surgery involving tweezers, nail clippers, a sterilized safety pin and some over-the-counter antibiotic cream?”

The doc’s gentle mocking isn’t lost on me.

Sensing my dismay, he continues, sympathetic but straightforward: “All you you’ve got in those toes is some skin, nail, and bone. If the infection spreads to the bone, you can end up having to amputate. There are serious risks to letting this sort of thing go untreated.”

I have to appreciate Minara’s accurate prediction of my lackluster at-home methods. Plus, being nine-toed seems a lot less than awesome. Do I really want to give up flip-flops forever?

I whip out my foot.

A few pinches and some dedicated squinting later, Minara deems my infection a six on a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst ingrown nail he’s ever dealt with.

“That’s doesn’t sound so bad,” I try.

“Six is bad,” counters the doc.

Defeated, I look at my boyfriend. There’s no denying that he was right or that I reached this point through sheer neglect. I finally feel like the foolish ingrate I’ve been. Simultaneously, it hits me that this meeting isn’t just critical to my health. As the first time I’ve been in a doctor’s office with a partner, it marks a sort of Life Step. This is a First that seems meaningful -- at least more so than losing my virginity to a summer fling who screamed Can you feel me inside you? repeatedly. I reach for my man’s hand and squeeze it, silently requesting forgiveness.

“I don’t want to see anything,” I tell him, “but I’m ready.”

“That’s fine, Sweetie.”

Four injections later, my foot is completely numb. I refuse to watch the doctor unwrap his various instruments or to listen as he details the process of excavating nail from skin.

Ten minutes or so later, I peek through my fingers to see the doctor bandaging my toe. As I inspect the large, bloodied, crescent-shaped pieces of nail on the tray at my side, my boyfriend rubs my leg. With each loving stroke, he lends weight to the medical hell I went through rather than sneer at me for making too much of a relatively benign procedure.

All wrapped up, my bulbous digit looks a lot like a potato. I know it will be insanely painful once the anesthesia wears off, but I sigh with relief -- for getting through the worst of it, and for knowing that I have someone to feed me Percocet later.

Potato toe, plus a dot of blood crust from one injection site.

“So what happens to the extra bits?” I ask.

“We usually make a soup,” Dr. Minara replies.

“With foreskins from circumcisions?”

“And colonoscopy juices?” adds the boyfriend.

The three of us laugh, and I feel like myself again.

In the backseat of the taxi home, leg elevated onto my boyfriend’s knees, I say, “Thank you for making me do this,” and promise not to resist him on medical matters moving forward.

My boyfriend’s response grin is oddly devilish. Next, he whips out his cell phone and admits that he filmed the whole thing on the sly.

“Maybe you’ll get the guts to watch it one day,” he says.

The chances of that are slim, of course, but maybe only as slim as finding a guy who loves me enough to film such a thing. The fact is that I do need taking care of in certain respects, and I should be grateful that someone’s willing to take on that challenge.

My boyfriend and I were walking back from the movies when a peculiar feeling ambushed me. It was the day I submitted my piece about sexuality in the workplace, it was pouring, and the sense of vulnerability overwhelming me was as acute as it was unexpected.

It’s uncharacteristic for me to fret over what others may or may not think about my work, but beneath the umbrella held up by the Man of My Dreams (yes, he stokes the cheesiness in me, and I love him for it), I realized that I cared deeply about what he may or may not think. To be clear, the dry humping incident featured in “I Use my Sexuality To Get Ahead At Work” occurred before my current relationship began. It should also be noted that my boyfriend has a track record of being remarkably understanding, even tolerating my one-off turn as a lap dancer at an exclusive, roving, underground club.

All of that said, I felt undeniably concerned, quite suddenly, that I might embarrass him, or, worse yet, taint his opinion of me.

Staring down at Soho’s charming but impractical cobblestone, I decided that by warning him I would soften any forthcoming blow.

“So I wrote this piece,” I said.

“About what?”

“Workplace flirtation.” Then, as blasé as possible, “I dry humped a high-powered executive a while back.”

Neither of us said anything for several blocks. What about this admission was supposed to feel good again?

Finally, “Who was it?”

“Does it matter?” I tried.

“It sure does.”

I answered, and immediately something changed; I was no longer alone in the sticky emotional stew.

At home, I cooked quinoa and grilled chicken. Things seemed better as we ate, but only because we managed to avoid any remotely meaningful subject. After doing the dishes, eager to pay reparations through some totally unselfish sex acts, I straddled my boyfriend.

“Get off,” he said, with a painfully dismissive wave of his hand. “I don’t want you doing to me what you did to him.”

Humiliated beyond belief, I obeyed. I wanted to explain that I had not straddled the powerful media man in the same way at all -- that no sexual act from my past could compare to what we share -- but in my broken state, I didn’t know how to say this. I retreated to the couch to hug my knees and cry instead.

“I’m so sorry,” I mumbled.

No answer. As the Love of My Life surfed the Internet, I considered alternative career paths. I hated myself for pursuing such bizarre projects. For being so damn truthful, and inconsiderate of the person I loved. I could write restaurant reviews! Or hop on board the yogi train! Or, I could be a full-time homemaker! Whose home would I make, though, if not ours?

Soon, I learned how noisy routine activities such as tooth brushing and changing clothes can be when shrouded in determined silence. I also learned how devastating it is to lie down with someone who refuses to cuddle.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “You -- and we -- are way more important to me than any job ever could be.”

“Stop that,” he said. “You know I support your writing. I just can’t get that picture out of my head.”

How foolish could I be in the space of a day? My past actions and the fact that I’d written about them were not what upset my boyfriend. He is too open-minded, experienced, and evolved for that. The problem was that I’d completed a mental picture no boyfriend should have to envision by providing one additional, unbearable detail. Sure, he had asked the question, but I had made it impossible not to ask for specifics by drawing his attention to the scenario. The funny thing was, I could sympathize.

“I guess it’s a little like fixating on a vision of you and your ex,” I noted.

Of course I’ve always known that my boyfriend was previously married, but no matter how accustomed I grow to the idea, it infuriates me consistently. Months before, when I came across his wedding album, I knew better than to open it. Regardless, I spent an hour pouring over those photos in private, assessing each for signs of, well, anything worth resenting.

Did he look happy with her? Was he actually planning to spend the rest of his life with anyone other than me? Doesn’t he smile more genuinely when we’re together? Doesn’t he wrap his arm around me more lovingly? Isn’t what we have better?

Eventually sickened by my own sneering, I tucked the album behind a stack of books on the highest, least visible shelf in the apartment.

At 4 am, I confessed this to my boyfriend.

First, he inched his way to my side of the bed. Then I earned the stroke of his hand.

“We both have pasts,” he said. “The difference is that you broadcast yours. But that’s your choice, and I respect that. Maybe I just need to read less.”

“Thank you,” I said, truly touched -- and relieved not to have to trade writing for a yoga mat.

We agreed it might be better to leave some things unknown (or unread) because as much as we want to accept each other, we are just too maddeningly human. Next, we sealed our pact with make-up sex.

The Venn way to relationship Zen

As of this writing, my boyfriend has yet to read that other article, and that’s okay. I feel as confident as ever in his supportive nature. I also see that by “warning” him that rainy evening, I was trying to quiet my own misgivings rather than thinking clearly about what might serve him -- and us -- best. I believe in honesty, but I also believe in tact.

The following day, I passed a giant billboard of a Venn Diagram on Lafayette Street that summed it up best. The Venn approach to relationships says to allow room for mystery on both sides of a loving overlap. As a couple, maybe you have to shift those circles around before finding the right balance.

Top (as I’ll refer to him for the purposes of this story) and I had met a few months prior at an industry event in New York City.

"This guy can make things happen," said the mutual acquaintance who introduced us. Top’s firm-but-warm handshake came immediately, tailed by smiling eyes, which, I surmised, had welcomed scores of personal confessions and declarations of loyalty in their forty or so year history. With every back slap and bear hug I watched Top dole out to professionals representing various corners of the media world that night, my certainty that I had to work with him grew stronger. Top was the key to expanding my careers as a writer across different mediums. Did I mention he was handsomer than he was charming?

I eventually agreed to travel thousands of miles at Top’s company’s expense for a meeting because we had genuinely clicked on a creative level, and I was genuinely interested in collaborating. I was also genuinely -- maybe dangerously -- attracted to him. I was not naïve enough to believe that Top was purely interested in my capacity to brainstorm (I did have Skype), but I had no idea what to expect, exactly. Not knowing was part of the adventure, I told myself.

The thing is, I know I’m more than a bit of a Work Flirt -- a role that maybe comes naturally to me, given that I exploit my body for a living. As an immersive journalist, I pride myself on being carefree and possessing the moxie to get the inside scoop on everything from naked body sushi modeling to plastic surgery to "sugar daddy" dating. I rarely hesitate to strip for the sake of a story, so why not flirt it means building a relationship or landing a gig? Even as a bond trader on Wall Street from 2003-2006, I found room to flirt pretty shamelessly within that rigid corporate atmosphere. In retrospect, I didn’t sleep with my boss back then because I wasn’t attracted to him, plain and simple. (I wrote about that experience for Elle.) I’ve always believed in a wink and a carefully timed lip bite, whether they lead to a free ice cream or to a job opportunity.

From the outset, I reveled in feeling Top’s eyes on me as I flounced about his office, posing somewhat thoughtful questions about the decorative accents representing his various career achievements. So you spent time in Africa? What was it like shaking hands with the President? How the hell did you find time to train for a marathon?

A good Work Flirt can feign sincere interest in even the most mundane miniature wooden statue. A good Work Flirt constantly gathers intelligence so she can summon relevant details later, showcasing that she bothered to remember them. Wasn’t that the takeaway from Groundhog Day? A good Work Flirt is agreeable and energetic and does whatever it takes to project ease and to foster comfort.

I was in control, right?

It didn’t unnerve me at all when Top locked the door behind us earlier that day. If anything, I was exhilarated by what my sixth sense told me to expect after so many carefully crafted sexts and so much playful banter.

I certainly didn’t intend to go from gratuitous complimenting to doing it with clothes on, but I did nothing to stop that progression either. I was focused on pleasing, you see. And I was actually enjoying myself for the most part. When Top gently patted his lap and invited me to sit on his crotch, I did acquiesce. I’m no prude, and I figured I had nothing to lose.

Now, hands beneath blouse, I readjust my bra while assessing the task of reviving the dismembered couch before me. The powerful media executive I just dry-humped on plush suede fumbles about his expansive, neutral-toned office.

"If I don’t find a tissue to wipe the cum off my dick fast --"

"You’ll have to order a cream-based soup for lunch and accidentally spill it on those perfectly pressed flat front khakis to explain away the stains?"

Amused by my sass, Top pauses to shake his head before resuming his search.

Tissue finally in hand, he drops his pants at his desk, on which piles of books and documents rest between framed photographs of vacation conquests (fish, not women).

"You know," he says, fidgeting with his belt buckle post cleanup, "we’ve really got to make an honest woman out of you, Mélanie."

Stunned into silence, I wait one prolonged moment for a punch line that doesn’t exist, then collect my belongings with zombie-like efficiency. If only I weren’t too flustered not to thank Top for his time while saying good-bye.

For the next several hours, I ping pong between feeling completely responsible and being enraged by Top’s special brand of hypocrisy. Nothing changes the fact that Top is a professional with whom I want to work, right? I still respect and admire him, don’t I? From the confines of my hotel room, which suddenly seems way more mediocre than glamorous, I relive the experience. Was I fearless, or just plain reckless?

Eventually, I realize that if Tophadn’t made his laughably offensive remark, I probably wouldn’t feel a modicum of residual emotional guilt.

Rather than wallow in self-loathing, I decide to take ownership of my behavior -- and to refrain from sending Top a dictionary flagged at the entry for "honest." If anything, I feel bad for Top. How sad for a man to be so disillusioned -- to have to dodge guilt by unjustly casting blame on another.

It would be totally disingenuous to tie this story up with a metaphorical bow by saying that I was inspired to abandon my Work Flirt ways from this point forth. It’s way too fun to eye fuck, for one. Plus, Top did end up hiring me.

Whether we can have it all, or not, I believe that sexuality is a tool, and that it’s up to an individual to use it, or not. Be the geisha who can topple a cyclist by staring him in the eyes if you can -- and want to -- be. In my view, it’s as unreasonable to expect no one to flirt in the workplace as it is to expect that doing so won’t complicate things occasionally. It’s obviously important to set one’s boundaries, and to respect those of others’.

But I see no reason to deny myself entry through the professional gateways I might unlock with my feminine wiles. Some might argue that there’s no place for sexuality in the workplace. As a card-carrying human, I’d argue that there’s no way to separate our sexuality from who we are entirely, whether at home, at the grocery store, or at work. I, for one, am uninterested in playing robot. Plus, haven’t men been bro-ing their way into promotions, exclusive memberships and deals for centuries? How many times a day do guys congregate by the water cooler or at a bar after work to bond over how hot they find certain women (colleagues, famous actresses, passersby, etc.), or to exchange stories about the chicks they’re banging?

The way I see it, women are sexualized day-in and day-out no matter what, whether they like it or not. Why let men monopolize The Department of Human Carnal Desire? If you can harness that power to advance your own aims, it might just be worthwhile. Sure, my opportunistic coquetry backfired a bit, but I refused to let it make me a reserved young professional because that’s not my style.

But I did learn from that dud of an experience. When it comes to being a Work Flirt, I now know, there’s something to be said about being a little more careful than carefree.